The Bell Witch

by John F. D. Taff

  “Well, if you’re that tired,” she agreed. “But you get cleaned up before you get into bed. Ruth just changed the bed clothes this morning.”

  “And I’m not about to change them again, John Bell. You’re gonna have to scrub your body a few times ‘fore I scrub those sheets again,” Ruth added from the other room.

  “I’m too tired to argue, Ruth,” he answered, stifling another wide, jaw-cracking yawn. “Goodnight.”

  “G’night, Mr. Bell,” she said.

  “And goodnight to you, Mrs. Bell,” he said to Liz, pecking her quickly and heading upstairs.

  * * *

  The water from the basin on the bedroom dresser felt deliciously cold as he splashed it onto his face. His cheeks and brow tingled even after he had toweled off, removed his pants, and crawled into bed.

  Pulling the covers over himself, he heard footsteps creeping slowly, softly up the stairs. Smiling, he closed his eyes. The footsteps stopped at Liz’s side of the bed, and he felt the covers pulled back, someone climb into bed next to him.

  “You’re in bed early, Lizzie,” he breathed.

  It may be early, John, but I’m not Lizzie, said another voice, equally whispered.

  John sprang from the bed, pulling the covers back as he did. It was hard to see anything in the darkened room, but he could tell that no one shared the bed with him.

  “Who’s there?”

  Why, it’s only me, John. Hush, and come back to bed. We’ve plenty to discuss.

  “Get out of my bed and leave this house, now!”

  “John!” Liz yelled from downstairs. “What’s going on up there?”

  “Nothing!” he shouted to her. “Stay until I tell you to come up!”

  There’s no need for that on my account. I’ll not hurt her.

  “You expect me to take a chance with the one I hold dearest?”

  I don’t hurt you.

  “Because you’re a coward.”

  John, I know you’re mad, and indeed, that’s why I’m here. To apologize for today, and attempt to explain as much as I may. But I’m a spirit. How can I be afraid of such as you?

  “That’s why you torture us, because there’s nothing we can do in to hurt you,” argued John.

  The Witch thought about this for a moment. As with most things you people say, you’re wrong and right in equal parts. It’s true that you can do little to hurt me, but that’s not why I do what I do.

  “Then, why don’t you torment me?” John pressed.

  I don’t know why I punish some and not others. Heaven knows there are many who deserve my wrath more than your father or sister, yet receive it not. I can’t touch you. I don’t know why, so it’s vain to ask. I know it would give you a perverse sort of pleasure were I to transfer my ministrations to you. I can be no more or less than what I am. I am a being of purpose.

  “And that purpose is punishment… for both my father and sister?”

  Yes, and your mother, sweet Luce.

  “My mother? Why?” he questioned.

  All in time, all in time. Why don’t you lie back in bed? I know you’re tired, and I promise not to disturb you.

  “Not until you get out.”

  Such as you wish, she said, and John heard the bed squeak as weight shifted upon it

  “Fine,” he answered, looking around the darkness before crawling suspiciously into bed.

  Is that better? she asked.

  “If you were gone, it would be best. Why do you want to talk with me anyway?”

  I need someone to talk with, John. Even one such as I needs someone to talk to. Someone who is unafraid and understands at least some of what I say.

  “And that person is me? Why me?”

  I speak with your mother, but I would like to speak with you as well. My reasons are my own.

  “They always are,” John said.

  I want you to know something, John. With you and Luce, I’ve been and will be absolutely truthful, to the best of my ability.

  “What is that supposed to mean? You lie to everyone you speak with, and yet you’d have me believe that you speak the truth to only my mother and me? You take us all for fools, that I know, but I’m not as big a fool as that.”

  John, whatever I tell others is meaningless fun, merely to prove how gullible humans are. And you must admit, telling someone a lie doesn’t necessarily make one a demon.

  John grunted.

  You may not understand or appreciate what I say, but I’ll tell you nonetheless, for no reason other than I must tell someone. But, I’ll never lie to either of you. Ever.

  “And on that, I suppose, I have your word as a demon?”

  For what it’s worth to you, I cannot lie.

  John thought on this, turned over in bed. “You’ve said that you serve a purpose. Whose purpose?”

  For a minute, the Witch said nothing, and John thought she might have left.

  Then, I honestly don’t know. But that purpose is embedded inside me as surely as your heart is fixed within you. You know it’s within you. You feel it beat. And you know it controls your life. I can no more escape my purpose than you could your own heart.

  “Can’t you rise above it? We humans can, on occasion, rise above our hearts. Think on your answer, because it seems your purpose is immoral. To kill a man?”

  That my purpose is against God there can be no doubt. And this does trouble me. I’ve thought on it at great length, and can find no answer that satisfies me. Yet, I exist, my purpose continues. I can give no better account than that, she sighed.

  “If someone told me to kill another person for no reason, I wouldn’t listen. If I was compelled, I would resist.”

  I understand, John. Thank you for listening.

  “One more question, spirit.”

  Yes?

  “You also say that you’re a punishment to my father and sister… and now my mother. But for what?”

  Again, there was a great stretch of silence.

  Do you deny knowledge of the things your father has done to deserve punishment? she asked finally.

  John felt himself blush in the dark. “What I know about my father’s… transgressions… don’t merit death.”

  What you know, dear John, is but a grain of sand upon the beach.

  “Then, for God’s sake, tell me. Please.”

  For me to tell would… undermine my purpose. I like and respect you, but I can’t violate my reason for being. I’m sorry.

  John, pushed beyond his limit, yelled, “You are evil, pure and simple! And I’ll have nothing further…”

  If you would save him, John, then fly! she yelled, her voice swatting his aside.

  “What?”

  Fly. That is my ransom. Fly and save your father.

  “I can’t fly.”

  Then, you can no more transcend your limitations than can I.

  John’s tongue twitched in his mouth, desperately trying to form the invectives to hurl at her. But it found none, eventually settled.

  I’ll let you sleep now.

  “Wait!” John implored. “Is there anything that can be done to alter your purpose?”

  I must serve my purpose. I’m sorry.

  “Goodnight, then, spirit.”

  Goodnight, John.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It’s a beautiful day to dedicate a new church, said the Witch as she watched Lucy get ready in front of the mirror in the bedroom.

  Lucy fussed over a new dress she had ordered from Boston, trying to decide if it was too frilly and ostentatious to wear to church. “What do you think?” she asked, pulling and tugging on it.

  You look very nice, Luce. It was good of old Jack to get that dress for you. If he’d have let you go to church this morning in one of your old gowns, I’d have boxed his ears for sure!

  “Oh, Witch!” Lucy clucked, smoothing the material, pulling at the neck and sleeves. The dress was of a pale green cotton, cut a little tight. “You don’t think it’s too tight, do you?”

  Help y
our singing voice, replied the Witch, and Lucy laughed. Oh, Luce, I do so like to hear you laugh. You’ve been gloomy for so long.

  “On a day like today, Witch, not even your presence bothers me,” she said, looking out onto the clear, bright April morning outside her bedroom window. “No offense.”

  What does the good reverend have planned for today’s auspicious event?

  “A special service, with plenty of singing. Then, we’re having a social outside, and everyone’s bringing food.”

  A social? asked the Witch, her tone excited. Why, I didn’t know you were all planning such a shindig. I don’t have anything to bring.

  “You’re coming?”

  Why, Luce, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Not for the world. But, I’ll have to think of something to bring. Let me think here for a minute…

  “You’ve never come to church before. Why now?”

  Even a spirit can benefit from a brush with the Lord. Besides, the weather’s been lousy, and I need to get out. Now, Luce, don’t worry. I’ll behave myself… as much as possible.

  “Jack’s going to have a fit,” whispered Lucy.

  Let him. Where’s the old devil anyway?

  “He’s at the church helping the reverend get ready. John and Liz are picking us up in a few minutes to take us there.”

  I’ll ride along, the Witch chirped.

  “Oh, Witch, please don’t cause a ruckus and ruin the day for everyone… especially poor Reverend Johnston. He’s been so looking forward to this day.”

  I won’t spoil it for Old Sugar Tongue, don’t worry.

  Old Sugar Tongue?

  He talks so sweet.

  Lucy raised her eyebrows at this, but pressed on. “Promise me you won’t cause a disturbance.”

  The Witch said nothing for a minute. Then, All right, Luce, I’ll be on my best Sunday behavior, just for you. But you’d better tell everyone to mind their manners. I’ve as much right to be there as the next person.

  “Just mind yourself,” Lucy answered, adjusting her sash and tying her bonnet. When she was finished, she looked back into the mirror. “There.”

  Lovely, said the Witch. John and Liz are just coming down the road. Shall we leave?

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “Tell the children to meet us in front. And make sure they’re dressed… and no hitting any of them.”

  Hit them? Why Luce, it’s Sunday, laughed the Witch’s voice, fading. The things you think of me…

  * * *

  The Witch fell silent as John and Liz stopped at the front of the house. John, clothed in a new brown suit, jumped from the wagon to help his mother and siblings. “You look wonderful, Ma,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  “Why, thank you, John. You’re looking quite handsome yourself.”

  “Liz had it made for me,” he said, turning around to show his new clothes off. “Not what I’d wear in the fields, but it does look good, I’ll admit.”

  “John Bell,” Liz said to him, mock-sternly. “Your days of wearing work clothes to church are over. From now on, you’ll dress for church like a respectable gentleman.”

  “I agree,” echoed his mother.

  “I see. It’s a conspiracy to make me a dandy.”

  Laughing, he held her hand as Lucy climbed into the wagon, her new dress sparkling as green as spring sunshine.

  “Bets,” greeted John, kissing her, too. “You look equally nice.”

  “Oh, you’re just a big flirt, John,” she said, slapping playfully at him as he helped her in.

  Williams and Zach were hefted like potato sacks and thrown into the back, kicking and squealing.

  “Mind their clothes, John!” admonished his mother.

  When John bent to pick up Drew, the smaller boy held his ground. “How do I look, Johnnie?” he demanded, expecting a compliment.

  “Well, Drewry,” said John, holding back his smile. “You look quite the gentlemen… except for the fact that your stockings don’t match.”

  Drew looked down in confusion, and John took the opportunity to scoop the boy up and throw him into the back with his brothers.

  “No fair!” he yelled.

  John climbed aboard, gave the reins a snap, and the horses started, spilling the boys heads over heels.

  “What a lovely day,” mused Lucy. “The trees and flowers are blooming, the birds are singing. Thank goodness spring is finally here. I do so hate winter.”

  “With such lovely weather and such a nice, new church, we’re sure to have plenty of new voices for the hymns today,” said Liz.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” replied Lucy under her breath.

  “Excuse me,” said Liz.

  “Nothing, dear. Nothing at all,” she smiled

  * * *

  “‘When Jesus came into the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, Whom do men say that I, the Son of Man, am? And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others, Jeremias or one of the prophets. He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?’

  “‘And Simon Peter answered, and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God. And Jesus answered and said unto him, Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-jona: for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my father which is in Heaven. And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it. And I will give unto thee the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on Earth shall be bound in Heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on Earth shall be loosed in Heaven.’”

  Reverend Johnston closed the book with a magnified thump! and looked up from the Bible at the open faces clustered before him.

  “Before we go on, I just want you all to know that today has special meaning for all of us, but most particularly for me. Just as Christ built his church upon Peter, so you all have decided to build your church upon me. And for that honor, for that trust and friendship, I thank each and every one of you. You’ve given me new faith, a new belief in myself and in God, and for that I can never repay you. But I’ll try. I’ll do everything in my power to give that faith back to you. To make sure that this church is a place where anyone can come, no matter how terrible the problem, and seek solace. Where anyone can come, no matter how bad the sin, and be forgiven.”

  It was hushed inside the church as he gathered himself. Every sound was magnified: someone clearing their throat, the rustle of clothing, the creaking and squeaking of the new pews with their fresh coating of beeswax.

  The sun entered the sanctuary quietly, too, kneeling through the plain windows in beams thick with wood dust. It fell on the hundred or so upturned faces, sparkled in their eyes, shimmered on their hair. The smell of fresh paint and new wood and spring was heavy on the cool, damp air.

  Johnston saw, in addition to his wife, the Bells sitting off to his right near the front; Dr. and Mrs. Hopson in the center, and Richard Powell alone in the last pew.

  “Well,” he said, collecting himself. “Why don’t we all join in and sing ‘Remember Me.’”

  Johnston cleared his throat and led them into the hymn.

  “There is a fountain filled with blood,

  Drawn from Emanuel’s veins,

  And sinners plung’d beneath that flood,

  Lose all their guilty stains.

  I will believe, I do believe that,

  Jesus died for me,

  Remember all thy dying groans,

  And then remember me.”

  At first, their assembled voices rose to the exposed rafters, the sound different, more spacious than when they had sung in someone’s parlor. But from out of the chorus, one voice soared above the others, rising to highs far above and lows far below the rest. As this voice became more pronounced, Johnston saw faces turning, seeking the singer. As more people fell silent, the voice took on more volume, until finally, it sang alone.

  And it was absolutely, ethereally beautiful.

  “Vain man, thy f
ond pursuits forbear,

  Repent, thy end is nigh!

  Death at the farthest can’t be far,

  O think before thou die!”

  Johnston, knowing what it was, saw Jack Bell lower his head in embarrassment. Lucy lowered her head as well, but Johnston saw her smile crookedly. He heard the hushed whispers of the congregation build to a swell. Even as the song progressed, he heard one word pass from lip to lip:

  Witch.

  “Reflect, thou hast a soul to save,

  Thy sins, how high they mount!

  What are thy hopes beyond the grave?

  How stands that dark account?”

  No one spoke as the song ended, and a hush more profound than before fell over the worshipers.

  Well, I don’t expect applause, but someone could at least sure say that it was nice, said the voice.

  From somewhere behind the Bells, a woman screamed, and fainted into her husband’s arms.

  “The Bells have brought their Witch!” came another voice, who Jack knew to be Howard Spranger from near Port Royal. “And to church no less! What’s going on here?”

  As if a cork had been taken from a bottle, everyone erupted. People leapt to their feet, fled toward the doors in a crowd.

  Upset at the unexpected turn this day was taking, Johnston waved his arms, pleading for calm.

  Quiet! roared the Witch, and the cacophony ceased. The service ain’t over, so no one’s leaving. The doors are locked anyway.

  A few men at the front of the crowd rattled the doors. They were locked tight.

  Slowly, hesitantly, people returned to their pews.

  That’s better. Reverend, you were saying…

  “Ahh, yes,” he faltered. “Yes, well, now everyone just calm down. I don’t rightly know what’s going on here, but I can say that whatever it is, the Bells have not brought it with them. Quite the contrary, this… phenomenon acts with its own mind. I have experienced it before, at the Bells’ own house. I ask you all to simply ignore it, and it will go away, I’m sure.”